Beneath the Surface

Chapter4

Theme: Recognition.

The Locke estate was an illusion of perfection. The kind of place built to impress guests and suffocate the people who lived inside it. Marble floors, chandeliered halls, art that no one actually liked. It hadn’t changed since Damien was sixteen—since the day he walked out and swore he’d never be like his father.

He had broken that promise somewhere along the way.

The scent of aged scotch and polished wood hit him the moment he stepped into the study. Gerard Locke was already pouring two glasses. No greeting. Just a ritual.

“You’re late,” his father said.

Damien didn’t bother to sit. “Traffic.”

His father passed him a glass, taking the armchair like a king on a throne. Even now, older and thinner, Gerard’s presence filled the room like smoke. He didn’t need to shout. Disappointment had always been the weapon of choice.

“I saw the Q1 numbers,” Gerard said. “Better. But you’re bleeding goodwill.”

“We’re rebuilding. It’s expected.”

“You don’t rebuild. You conquer. People don’t want transparency, Damien. They want confidence. Control. Certainty.”

Damien took a long sip. “That worked for you.”

“It made me,” his father snapped. “Everything you have—everything you are—exists because of the foundation I built.”

The silence after was heavy.

And familiar.

Damien didn’t argue. Not here. Not with him.

Instead, he looked past his father’s shoulder, to the dusty piano tucked in the corner. His mother used to play that piano. Quiet, tentative songs that never quite reached the next room.

Then one day, she was gone.

No explanation. No warning.

Just silence. The kind that got louder with time.

“She left because she was weak,” Gerard had told him. “You won’t be.”

And Damien hadn’t been.

He’d become stone.

Back at the office, the quiet was different.

Cleaner.

The building was nearly empty, the kind of stillness that made every click of a keyboard feel loud. Damien loosened his tie and sat at his desk, staring at the campaign proposals on his screen.

He should have gone home.

But something in him resisted the emptiness that waited there.

A soft knock at his door pulled him back.

Arielle stepped in, a file tucked under one arm. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

He motioned to the seat across from him. “Neither did I.”

She hesitated. Then crossed the room and sat down.

“I was finalizing the rebranding pitch deck,” she said. “Wanted to run a few things by you.”

“Now?”

“I figured you’re only tolerable after ten p.m. when your jaw is less clenched.”

That earned her a look. But not a sharp one. More like… amused.

“You don’t filter much, do you?” he said.

“No. You filter everything. I figure balance is important.”

He leaned back, watching her. She was tired, but sharp. Dressed in a loose cardigan now, heels off, hair starting to fall from the knot she always wore too tight. There was something real about her presence. Something unedited.

She opened the file. “We’ve got three approaches for rollout—two are safe, one’s risky.”

“Which one do you want?”

“The risky one,” she said. “Naturally.”

He motioned for her to continue.

As she walked him through the strategy, her passion unfolded—point by point, logic built on instinct, numbers threaded with purpose. She didn’t just want the campaign to work. She wanted it to mean something.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that unsettled him more than her criticism ever did.

“You don’t like it,” she said suddenly, catching his silence.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t trust it.”

“I don’t trust emotion to lead strategy.”

“And I don’t trust strategy without emotion to connect.” She sat back, folding her arms. “You say you want authenticity. But I don’t think you even believe in it.”

He stood, restless, moving to the windows. The city glittered below like a galaxy trapped in glass. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then: “Authenticity is a branding tactic. Not a value.”

“That’s a sad answer.”

“It’s a real one.”

She walked up beside him. Quiet. Close. Their reflections caught in the window—her soft edges beside his sharp silhouette.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending you don’t feel anything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His throat tightened.

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t.

“I’m not pretending,” he said, but it came out lower, rougher than he meant.

She didn’t argue.

She just looked at him.

Really looked.

And in that moment, under the weight of the skyline and the soft hum of silence between them, something shifted. It wasn't an attraction, not quite. It was something slower. Deeper.

Recognition.

Like two people carrying different kinds of grief... and realizing they weren’t alone in it anymore.

Their reflections danced against the glass, their eyes tracing each other’s outlines, almost as if trying to decipher the unsaid words. The weight of the moment lingered between them like a fragile thread, one that could either snap or tighten with every breath they took.

Damien shifted slightly, stepping away from the window and turning to face her fully. “This isn’t about feelings, Arielle,” he said, his voice quiet, controlled. “This is about what works.”

She didn’t move. Her gaze, steady and direct, met his. “Isn’t it a bit late to pretend you don’t have them?”

He wanted to look away. To deny it. To escape it. But he didn’t. He stood there, silent, feeling the truth of her words claw at the defenses he’d spent years building.

The quiet between them grew thick, neither of them willing to break the fragile truce that had formed. It was a standoff, a shared understanding of something unspoken.

Then, Arielle broke the silence. “You say you don’t trust emotion in strategy, but you’re running a company built on trust. Or, at least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.” Her voice softened, almost pitying, but it didn’t sting. “You can’t build anything meaningful without it, Mr Locke. You can’t convince anyone to believe in your vision if you don’t believe in it yourself.”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, still unsure how to process the weight of her words. She was right. There was a part of him, deep down, that had forgotten what it meant to trust. To connect. To let people in. He had been too busy building walls, brick by brick, to protect himself from the failures he feared.

But somehow, here she was, standing in front of him, her words shaking the very foundation he thought was unbreakable.

“Maybe I don’t know how to,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Maybe I’ve forgotten.”

Her expression softened, and for a brief moment, he saw something beyond the tough exterior she showed the world. There was compassion in her eyes, but also a hint of something else. Something unspoken, like she understood him more than he was willing to admit.

“You’re not alone in that,” she said quietly, her voice almost tender. “But you don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The truth was, he had always been alone, in one way or another. It was how he’d been raised, how he’d lived his life. Trusting people—really trusting them—felt like an impossible risk.

But in that moment, under the glow of the city lights, with Arielle standing beside him, something inside him shifted. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it was a shift nonetheless. A small crack in the armor he’d worn for so long.

“Maybe I’m not ready,” he said finally, his voice low, almost to himself.

Arielle didn’t reply immediately. She just nodded, as if she understood more than he realized.

For a long while, neither of them spoke, standing there in the shared silence that held more weight than any words could convey.

Eventually, Arielle broke the stillness. “I’ll send the final proposal by morning,” she said, picking up the file and turning toward the door. “Get some rest, Mr Locke.”

He nodded, watching her leave, feeling the weight of her departure settle over him. The silence that followed was different now. It wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t full either. It was a kind of limbo, where things hadn’t been resolved, but perhaps, just perhaps, they could be.

Damien returned to the window, staring out at the city below. His mind was a storm, his thoughts scattered and heavy, but in the midst of it all, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t as alone as he’d thought.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be.